Sanctuary
by anamolly02
Summary: In a time and place where it seems the entire world has gone to the dogs, Dennis thinks he's found a Safe Haven. There's just one blue-and-bronze-tied problem. DAYDverse.


_Title: Sanctuary  
>Author: anamolly02<br>Disclaimer:1. This is a work of fan-fiction. 2. No money is made on this work. 3. JKR retains her rights. 4. Thanfiction retains his portions.  
>WIPLength: Complete, 2890 words  
><em>_Main Characters/Pairings: Dennis Creevy, Tommy LaRoche  
><em>_Rating: K+  
><em>_Warnings: some language, mild violence  
><em>_Summary: In a time and place where it seems the entire world has gone to the dogs, Dennis thinks he's found a Safe Haven. There's just one blue-and-bronze-tied problem.  
><em>_Author's Note: Compliant with Thanfiction's DAYDverse. The OC Tommy LaRoche belongs to him, and is used with permission._

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><p>Sanctuary<p>

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><p>It was the smells that called him down there. He had never intended to, never even thought of it, but one quiet evening he was ambling aimlessly through the halls, his head bowed; he wasn't even aware he was near there. But then the smell. It was enthralling. Like a wave pounding into the shore, the aroma struck his nostrils, filling them with what could only be described as Heaven.<p>

It was Bliss, and it was Comfort, and it was Distraction all rolled into one. And it beckoned him toward the painting; the one with the fruit. And he wasn't sure why, but he reached up and ran his fingers lightly over the still-life. And the vibrant green of the pear, in an otherwise rather dim painting summoned his fingertips, and then the painting was swinging open, and he was walking into a noisy, bustling kitchen. The elves were busily preparing meals, speaking with each other, yelling at each other, and laughing with each other. They were welcoming to him.

They led him to a seat, and he took it warily, eyeing them because he couldn't be sure it was safe to be in here. But then there was Dobby, the kindest elf imaginable, and in taking only one look at him, in his red and gold tie, and his young but not naïve face, the house-elf smiled warmly, and declared his safety and welcome, gesturing to others to get him some food and shouting about pumpkin juice.

When Dennis declined, shaking his head and holding up his palms in a halting gesture, Dobby waved him down, saying things like 'nonsense', and 'eat', and 'too thin'. When the plate of Sheppard's pie was placed in front of him, Dennis didn't touch it because in truth, he wasn't hungry. He didn't feel like eating, hadn't felt much like eating since Christmas. He looked up guiltily at Dobby, standing only meters away at a stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled delicious.

The house-elf's large, tennis ball eyes looked over at him, and then his untouched plate.

'Is it not satisfactory?' he asked. 'Did Dobby do something wrong?'

Dennis shook his head rapidly, shutting his eyes for a moment. He didn't want them to feel offended or in trouble, not after they'd been so kind, but he didn't want to eat. He opened his eyes and then just stared at the house-elf for a moment, the round eyes staring back.

Then, the small creature stepped forward, and Dennis never understood how, never understood why, but Dobby placed the ladle into the boy's open palm, pressing down until his fingers closed around the handle, and then looked back into his face with a warm smile. He turned, sweeping his arm out toward the stove and the simmering pot of soup.

The entire kitchen became silent the moment Dennis was standing in front of the stove, all large round eyes glued to him. He stared down at the broth, quite thin, maybe only having simmered for a few minutes. Feeling the weight of each pair of wide orbs around the room, he tentatively reached down and began to stir the contents of the pot in a clockwise motion. He bit his lip, concentrating on the consistency of the liquid.

Murmurs began to fill the air, quiet and hushed. Then they rose in volume, and soon every elf was speaking, loud and care-free. And he may have expected them to be angry that he was allowed to touch food or utensils in what was clearly their kitchen, but they weren't. He hadn't looked up, so maybe Dobby had conveyed a silent plea to them, but whatever the reason, Dennis didn't care.

They helped him cook. They gave him ingredients, advised him on what to do next, arguing with each other over whether the potatoes should be sliced or diced. And on and on.

He didn't mind; it was something like what he used to have in the kitchen back home. Dad standing beside him, chopping up half of dinner's preparation as Dennis did the rest, both turning to each other and offering some small advice on what they could add to the meal to enhance the taste. Mum sitting at the table with bills around her, her glasses slightly lower on her nose than necessary so that she could look up and smile brightly at them as they worked at the counter.

Cooking – the smells and the tastes and the sounds and the movements – it was soothing. It was relaxing and familiar. It was comforting in a way nothing else could be. Not even Colin and his brotherly care could compare to the intricacies of this art and the way it made him feel.

He was in control here. He was free here to do as he pleased. He was open to experimenting, and if it didn't work then he could start over, or he could just try to soldier on, and who knew? Maybe something incredible would happen just as the sauce began to thicken and cool and it would come out more cheesy than milky and damn – could he do this forever. Could he lose himself in the food – forever.

He stayed there for over three hours, cooking.

He would have been happy to stay longer, but he knew it was nearing morning, and if the Carrows did one of their random checks… Well if they'd done so at all tonight he was going to be in trouble. So he'd better hurry off.

But he'd come back. Oh, but he'd come back. He'd found his sanctuary.

…:::…

Things got so that Dennis wasn't able to return to the kitchens for about a week, the Carrows having come down hard on him for coming into the dorm while they were making their rounds so late at night that once.

So it was near-on a week later when he returned, and he could smell it, something new, something different as he approached the portrait. His mouth watered at the mere thought of aiding the house-elves with whatever it was they were working on tonight. And whatever it was, why had they never had this at the Great Hall? It smelled so… intoxicating.

The portrait swung open, and sound hit his ears as he entered, head down. When he heard cries of welcome from his hosts, he lifted his head to nod at them, his eyes coming to a sudden stop at the image of another student staring wide-eyed back at him.

Blue robes having been shucked off and tossed over the back of a chair to the side, vest carelessly heaped at the feet of that chair, sleeves of his white oxford shirt rolled to the elbows, blue and bronze tie nowhere to be seen, Tommy LaRoche stared back at Dennis with wide blue eyes that first held fear, then relief, then an expectant question.

'You gonna move from theyuh? Come in, you'll let 'em know we heeyuh.'

Dennis did as he was told, shuffling forward from the open doorway, the small click of it shutting behind him not even registering. What was _he_ doing here?

LaRoche bowed his head over the knife and cutting board before him, ignoring Dennis as he stood still in the same place. He was chopping something up, loud thwacks sounding through the air each time the knife came down, a sound seeming both familiar and comforting with its simplicity as well as jarring and impressive with its intensity.

After a few minutes which Dennis spent watching on tip toes over the pots around him, LaRoche lifted his blonde head and raised a brow at him.

'Wachu just standin' theyuh fouh?' He asked. 'Ain't never seen a chef at wuhk befouh?'

This ruffled Dennis a bit, but he just looked away, finally moving. He went to the table, shedding his outer robes and carefully placing them over the back of a chair. He turned back toward the stoves, the house-elves all busy about themselves. Some had been watching LaRoche at work as well, but with his comment to Dennis, had hurried to occupy themselves with their own preparations.

He came upon an elf named Tessie, and she smiled at him as she moved over, allowing him to take the knife from her fingers and chop the dates which had been her duty. He gratefully took the task, going to work with the stubborn little things.

Things flowed well for a while, the elves and the boys busy with the food in front of them. But then Dennis felt eyes on him unmoving, and looked up to see blonde brows scrunched over him.

'That's all wrong.'

Dennis' brows rose as he tilted his head. What was he doing wrong?

'Ain't ya never chopped dates? Ya gotta do 'em thin, and small.'

Dennis looked back down at his board, confused because his dates were thin and small. He just shook his head, going back to chopping and steadfastly ignoring the other boy.

'Also, now, ya ain't holdin' that theyuh knife right.' The other boy continued.

Dennis stopped mid-stroke, closing his eyes and sighing. He was handling the knife just fine. He'd watched countless cooking shows on the tele with Dad, and they both took on the habits of professional chefs, and they both had always held their knives like this. LaRoche wasn't right, and why did he care, anyway?

Dennis didn't look up, but he could see in his peripheral vision and through his fringe that the blonde was pointing down at his board. He bit his lip, hoping really hard that this evening was not going to continue this way. He shook his head slightly, going back to work without even looking back up at him.

It took the Ravenclaw a bit to get it, but once he did he huffed an annoyed sigh and went back to minding his own business.

Dennis was thankful. He was trying to lose himself in it all. He moved on from the dates, sliding them into the batter Tessie had left by his side and stirring with the whisk. He continued to beat it afterward, the rhythm of the whisk beating into the thick, sticky substance calming, the sound of it clanking against the bowl consuming.

'Yo' pace is off.'

Dennis started in the wake of LaRoche's voice permeating his barrier of what had become a simple humming noise in background of the clanking of his own utensil.

He turned to see LaRoche's hand suspended over a sizzling skillet, having obviously just sprinkled something into what Dennis hadn't realized until now was the something making his mouth water since he'd come down this way.

'Yo' pace is off,' the blonde repeated. 'Give it heeyuh, I'll show ya.' He reached out, and Dennis, indignant, recoiled from the stove even though there was no reasonable way LaRoche could reach him from across it.

Dennis shook his head quickly, his eyes conveying all the message he felt necessary: Stay Away From My Food.

LaRoche was taken by surprise with the move, and cast narrowed eyes upon him. 'What? I'm just tryin' to help.'

Dennis remained silent, protectively shielding the bowl with his body.

After a moment of staring at each other LaRoche rolled his eyes. 'Stubborn as all git out.' he muttered to himself, grabbing the handle of his pan and jerking it around so as to shuffle its contents.

Dennis resolutely ignored LaRoche the rest of the night. Any small comment or movement or huff of annoyance or snort of disapproval was met with head down and silence. It didn't mean LaRoche let up by the end, and it didn't mean Dennis wasn't affected. Oh he was.

He was annoyed and angry, and indignant. How dare he criticize his technique. Dennis said nothing of the way he stuck his fingers into his food after licking them clean, or how he used the strangest mixture of ingredients, or how he left the flame way too high for what he had over it… Nor did he comment on how utterly amazing the smell was, how exotic and invigorating the scent tasted on his lips. It took a lot of self control and pride not to make any of these comments. Out loud, at least.

When Dennis left that night, he promised himself not to return on a Sunday. LaRoche must be avoided at all costs. Because that kitchen was his sanctuary, and damn but that nosy American wasn't about to steal it from him.

…:::…

Over the next two weeks, Dennis came into the kitchen five times. Once on a Wednesday, but LaRoche was already there, so he turned right around and went back to his dorm.

Next he went was Friday, and LaRoche wasn't there, so he settled in and got to work, only to have the blonde come in a little while later. At first, Dennis was nervous, but when LaRoche just sent a single nod his way in greeting and spent the next twenty minutes to himself, he allowed himself to relax a little.

But apparently LaRoche only had enough patience to ignore Dennis and his far inferior methods for so long, and he quickly took to berating him for his 'cleayuh lack of understandin' of the juices in sausage, and how ya need to cook it ovuh the flame just so–'

This was the point Dennis had taken his skillet off the flame and chosen another stove to work at. As far from LaRoche as he could manage.

The next time was Monday night, a little later than he had been doing before. Words of hope and 'please, please, please, please don't let him be here tonight' silent on his lips, Dennis stood aside as the portrait opened, and he flung his head back dramatically as he saw what had come to be the very bane of his existence bending down to look into the oven.

He debated with himself for a few moments, seeing as LaRoche hadn't seen him, he could just turn around and leave and no one would know… but today had been particularly difficult, and he just needed a little peace… the kitchen could offer this… but for LaRoche…

In the end he decided to just deal with the twit so he could have some sort of outlet. Oh, but the extreme amount of biting his lip it took to stay in that kitchen. LaRoche was obnoxious. He obviously held himself to some higher standard, and believed himself God in the kitchen. It was just so infuriating. LaRoche was good, at least that's what the smells told him.

The Ravenclaw had offered a taste of a cherry pie he had made to Dennis that night, and Dennis ignored it because he knew why he did. And Dennis didn't care to see the look of smug 'See, this is what real cooking tastes like' on his stupid face.

So he was good, but that did not make him perfect, and even still didn't give him the right to gloat, or to put Dennis down for his cooking.

He tried the off chance that two nights in a row might be a bit much for the Ravenclaw, and returned on Tuesday, only to find himself with unwanted company once again. He suffered through the now icy tone of the strange accent as LaRoche scolded him for doing something, and he kept quiet through the open scoffs at how he handled the food, and he grew redder and redder through the increasingly large amount of criticism of how his food turned out.

He left that night and hit a wall just outside the kitchen, biting his lip to muffle the scream as his knuckles hit the concrete. He returned to the tower with bloody knuckles that night, and a nosy Colin in his face was the last thing he needed, so he shoved his brother away as he stomped up to his dorm.

It took him a long time to calm down, and now whenever he saw a blonde head above blue robes in the corridor or in DA meetings, he turned the other way. On Saturday evening he felt like cooking again, and he just needed for LaRoche not to be there. But then he figured that he should just go down there and deal with it. Maybe cast a silencing charm on the bloody arse if he dared open his mouth to him even once.

But the sight of that blonde head and blue eyes and thin figure standing over the sink in the corner was enough to make his blood boil and his stomach sink and his head hurt. Just the thought of being in this small, busy, noisy place with that arrogant, slimy nerf herder was enough to turn him away.

He marched back down the corridor the other way. What had he even been thinking? A sanctuary? In this castle? In this hell-hole? No. Not for him, and not for anyone. Even LaRoche was going to suffer in there with the sizzle and pop of his food, all alone. He needed someone to talk to, someone to look down on to feel good about himself. And Dennis was denying him that just as he'd denied him his small escape.

There were no sanctuaries in Satan's playground.


End file.
